


Ways of Parting

by SomeEnchantedEve



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Greyjoy Rebellion, Pre-Canon, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27704363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeEnchantedEve/pseuds/SomeEnchantedEve
Summary: For the ASOIAF Kinkmeme prompt: Catelyn/Ned, she's sure the Kings of Winter never meant for this to happen in their cold, stone seatWritten in 2012.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Ways of Parting

**Author's Note:**

> I am finally working on preserving some/all of my fics from several different locations (ASOIAF Kinkmeme and other LJ locations, ff.net, etc) and consolidating them here on AO3. Apologies to my subscribers who are being tricked into thinking this is new content! Hopefully it is old/buried enough that it feels new. 
> 
> Most kinkmeme fills will be added to my 'Collection of Comment Fics', but I do have several fics, such as this one, that are long enough to stand alone.

Whilst the hot springs that pump through the castle make the walls of Winterfell warm to the touch, the great seat that once hosted the fearsome Kings of Winter is always icy cold, as though the remnants of a thousand years of frost cling to it. Catelyn has never sat upon what was before known as the throne of the northern kingdom, but she has traced her fingers along the runes etched on the side, has felt the chill and history holding fast there. It gives her the same feeling of disquiet that the godswood does; the feeling that despite the years she has spent in Winterfell and the children she has borne, she will always be somewhat of an outsider. This throne is carved from stone and mortar, not forged from steel and fire, but she has no doubt that should she sit upon it, she would be rejected as soundly as she would from the Iron Throne itself.

Ned never seems more the part of Lord Eddard than when he sits to hear grievances and petitions, his long face set into grim seriousness, his eyes hard as granite. Watching him dispense justice, the low timbre of his voice echoing off the walls, it is easy to remember that the Starks once ruled as kings, as unforgiving and unyielding as the north itself.

And so when her husband bids her to sit, a mere few days before he is to depart to join his host with King Robert’s and crush the uprising rebellion on the Iron Islands, she hesitates. It is not a seat made for a Tully, for a southron woman, and much as she does beneath the face of the weirwood Ned finds such solace in, Catelyn cannot help but imagine his old gods frowning at the sight of her, whistling an ill wind her way.

“I will conduct business in the solar,” she protests, giving the great seat a wary look, keeping clear even of the three rough-hewn steps that raise it from the ground. It is not her place, and she has no desire to make it so; her duties and responsibilities in her husband’s absence can easily be carried out elsewhere.

But Ned shakes his head. “You must be seen to speak with my voice, to carry my authority, and here, you will be.” He pauses, hesitating, and then adds, “And, in turn, if need be – Robb’s voice.”

The words hit her squarely in the gut, leaving her pained and breathless at the thought. “Don’t say such a thing,” she begs, glancing around the empty hall, as though the gods lurked in the bare corners to hear such ill-wishing. She shivers suddenly, the fear prickling like a cold wind at the back of her neck, and Ned rests a heavy hand on her shoulder, his thumb brushing against the goosebumps raised on her flesh. "Don't even think it." 

“It is war, Cat,” is all he offers in response, and she blinks hard against the sudden rush of tears that sting her eyes. There is no patience for weeping in the North, and if her heart breaks at the notion of sending him off to yet another war, of being left behind with yet another babe in her belly who may never know its father, than she shall cry on her own, when there is time for such indulgences.

She sinks into the great seat, and she must sit on the edge of it to keep her feet flat on the ground. The space between the two slabs that made the armrests is wide enough to fit her twice over, and she wonders if the old winter kings were truly so much bigger, so much greater and grander. She spreads her arms wide to rest her palms against the edges of the throne, and the stone is cold as she imagines the Wall would be against her skin. Silently, she lets her eyes wander the expanse of the empty room, imagining it full of petitioners. Never before has she had to regent in her husband’s place for longer than a moon’s turn, the length of a visit to a distant holdfast; she had spent the first war of their marriage safely ensconced in Riverrun. It is not the duty itself that she dreads, but the reason behind it, the cause of his absence. _It was not this hard the first time,_ she thinks, tightening her fingers on the arms of the chair and biting the inside of her cheek against the swell of emotion that blooms in her chest. _It hurts so much more to bid him goodbye now._

If Catelyn feels insignificant and small, sitting in such a grand seat never meant for a girl from the Riverlands, Ned seems to not notice; he watches her with crossed arms, his eyes satisfied.

He climbs the three stairs when she pats the space next to her, and joins her, the seat wide enough to accommodate them both. His thigh presses flush against her own, and she leans into the warmth of his body, away from the hostile cold of the stone at her other side.

“You will do well,” he assures her, slipping an arm around her waist and squeezing her hip lightly. “There are no hands more capable.”

A rueful smile twists her lips. “But please,” she asks, “do not let that delay your returning.” He lets out a bark of laughter at that, and she presses her face against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent at the warm column of his neck. He runs his hand soothingly up and down the expanse of her back, but his touch only makes her ache for him as though he is already gone. She kisses the junction of his shoulder and neck, and at the spot over where she can feel his pulse beat steady and true, and underneath his jaw. His skin is warm to the touch, a reminder that they are alive for all that the kings of winter are dead and buried in their cold tombs in the crypts.

Ned hums in approval at the movement of her lips, and the vibration of his voice against her mouth heats her blood. She glances once more around the empty hall, and then slides her hand to his thigh, letting her fingertips rest on the inside of his leg and tilting her head up to offer her mouth to him.

The eagerness with which he meets her surprises her a bit. This babe has put fire in her blood more so than the two that came before, but while she is quicker to lust than ever before, Ned has remained his own quiet, reserved self – never cold, but always private. But he winds his arm around her shoulders now, holding her close, his lips parting against hers. _As though it may be the last time_ , she thinks briefly, but she quickly forces it from her mind.

She pushes up against his thigh, shifting to perch on his lap, and his hand brushes the small curve of her belly, still barely noticeable through the thick fabric of her gown, before settling around her waist. “I much prefer this seat,” she teases coquettishly, and Ned laughs again, his hand tightening at her hip.

“I will miss you, Cat,” he says, and her heart gives a painful squeeze at his words, so much more intimate than his normal speech.

She leans forward and kisses him fiercely, reaching up to cup his face between her palms. She catches his bottom lip between her own, running her tongue along the soft inside of his lip before nipping it lightly, and Catelyn smiles against his mouth at the moan that action draws from him. “And I you, my love,” she murmurs. In Riverrun, years ago, she had prayed dutifully each day for the victory of her lord husband, had asked the Warrior to lend him strength and the Crone to give him guidance, for the Mother to protect him so that he may one day see his son. But she had not missed him; she could not, when she barely knew him. This time, he means so much more, and her prayers will have a different timbre. She kisses him again, with a bit of desperation to her touch, pressing her body to his, molding against the familiar hard planes of his chest and stomach.

Ned exhales sharply, sliding his hand along her thigh over the top of her gown, and she huffs in displeasure at the layers between them. She shifts, sliding her right leg to the other side of his body so that she can straddle his lap, opening her mouth wider against his, twitching her skirts up. The stone beneath her knees is cold and rough-hewn, scraping against her skin.

She feels Ned hesitate, and briefly she wonders if she has pushed too far, if his sense of honor will not allow him to engage in such sacrilege on the throne of his ancestors. There is so much of Ned that belongs to Winterfell, to the North, parts of his heart and soul that she will never be privy to. It feels like a victory, a satisfaction far beyond the promise of pleasure when he relents, his hands slipping beneath her skirts to touch her bare skin, and she moans low in the back of her throat when he slides her smallclothes down to just above her knees, his fingers brushing against where she is already wet with arousal.

 _There are parts of him that belong to me alone, as well,_ she reminds herself, and she winds her arms around his neck like vines, pushing flush to him while she drops her lips to his neck. She can feel the press of his cock against her leg, and she lets out a soft keening sound at the feel of it, dropping one hand to cup him through his breeches.

He curses under his breath as she palms him, his hands slipping further up her skirts to grip her hips and pull her even closer. She grinds against his lap, seeking pressure and friction to help ease her aching, and ignores the rough scratching of his breeches against the tender skin on the inside of her thigh. It will be a reminder, Catelyn tells herself, marks on her body that will not fade until after he has left her behind. Ned drops his mouth to the curves of her breasts above her neckline, peppering kisses along the flesh there, drawing the skin between his lips. She is absurdly grateful that her gown laces in front when he reaches up to loosen them, enough that he can tug the front down over her breasts, releasing them from the fabric. She lets out a strangled moan when he suckles a nipple in his mouth, his hands gripping hard at the small of her back, and quickly she yanks at the ties of his breeches, rising up to her knees so that she can pull out his cock.

Her cry echoes in the empty chamber when she sinks down onto him, her head tilting back at the familiar sensation. At the loud sound, Ned’s eyes snap to the door warily, though his fingers grip her no less tightly. But they have been truly left alone to their afternoon business, and when the door remains firmly closed, Catelyn begins to rock her hips.

The seat rubs roughly against her knees, and though she uses Ned’s shoulders for leverage, she can only manage shallow movements. Her eyes slip closed and she whimpers in frustration at the stuttering motion, at the brush of the tip of his cock. Ned groans, nipping her neck and grabbing beneath her knees, and for a moment, Catelyn thinks he means to bear her down to the ground, and she glances wildly behind her at the steps at the base of the great seat.

But instead he pulls her legs to wrap around his back, and she sighs throatily as she slides forward, her heels digging into his hips, and he pushes deeper inside her. She moves her hands from his shoulders to the back of the chair, wrapping her fingers around the edges of the cold, unyielding stone, and from there she is able to rock firmly forward and back. Ned’s large hands cup under her bottom to help her move, and she gasps when he lifts her slightly, changing the angle so that he is hitting just the right spot with each smooth, deep slide.

She pushes hard, and his hips bump the back of the seat from the force of her movement, and when she rolls her hips again, he surges forward to meet her, his mouth claiming hers in a searing kiss, swallowing the cry on her lips. “Touch me,” she begs when she feels the building pressure of her climax, and obediently he plunges a hand back beneath her gown, circling over her with his callused thumb. She moans his name against his neck when she comes, tasting the salt of his sweat there against her lips. His thumbs digging into her hips, he jerks his hips once, twice more, and then she feels the hot spill of his seed inside her.

Stubbornly, she clings to him even as he sags back against the high seat, holding tight as though that could keep him there with her and safe from warfare. Her heart aches at the thought, overfull with anxiety and the love she bears him, and she closes her eyes as he combs his fingers through her hair, attempting to smooth away the tangles. As their breathing slowly returns to normal, she imagines Ned’s old gods frowning down at the sight of their wantonness, imagines the rage of the fearsome kings in their crypts at such blatant blasphemy.

With her limbs wrapped around her husband, perhaps for the last time in quite some time (and she does not allow herself to think beyond that), she cannot bring herself to worry about such things.

“Come home safe to us,” she whispers in his ear, and she holds the words fast to her heart.

Ned kisses her again – softly, sweetly this time – but makes her no promise.


End file.
